First Day of Writing Class: Prose
She sauntered in, hands in her jeans’ pocket
Aware of every eye on her
Yet strangely unmoved
Where should I look, she wondered.
His gentle smile caught her eye
She trained her gaze on him
The black cobra baring its fangs on his dark shirt
Drew a smile from her
Such a fearsome shirt on an affable man
Calculated to give him an aura of… perhaps?
He glanced at her in turn
The slightest tilt of the head in her direction
Her wavy hair framing her face
And they both wondered
What would the day ahead hold?
How would it unfold
Poetry had to rhyme she was told
so quit the rhyme and let the prose be bold
but the words flow in form and tend to unwilling rhyme
prose I cannot write
poetry wins the day
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